


looking down the cross

by inkk



Category: Megadeth, Metallica
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Murder, Mystery, On the Run, Reunions, Sharing a Bed, i hate motels and i hope you do too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: Eight long years after cutting ties with drug kingpin Dave Mustaine, James Hetfield finds himself back in California in order to pay his last respects to an old friend.But as past friends and lovers reunite, what was intended to be a weekend trip quickly becomes more of an extended getaway... and James will begin to find out that sometimes, the dead have a way of holding on.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Lars Ulrich
Comments: 32
Kudos: 53





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey all! i initially started this one on rockfic, but i thought i'd put it here too.  
> anyways, here's the scoop: i've had some writer's block lately and i've been very discouraged that my writing hasn't been "good enough", so i decided i'd start a new project and keep it low-pressure. my main intent with this one is just to have fun and practice writing (particularly the non-dialogue kind).  
> so if you're reading this, i hope you enjoy it! i'll try to update as often as i can. love u 💕

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James knew that no matter how hard he tried to cut things off cleanly, it would only be a matter of time before Dave found a loose end to tug on and reel him back in.

+

James was always sure he’d see Dave again.

Even after he retired from the business and moved off to Colorado for a quieter life, watching the years come and go without any form of contact, he could never shake the feeling that the two of them weren't quite done. This was Dave Mustaine, after all — a man who dealt in favours and I-O-Us, neither of which have an expiry date. James knew that no matter how hard he tried to cut things off cleanly, it would only be a matter of time before Dave found a loose end to tug on.

He never could have predicted that the reunion would look like this, though.

The call had come in on Thursday night, the plane ticket booked for Friday morning, and here he is on Friday night: standing outside in crisply-ironed slacks and cheap dress shoes, watching the rain run off the tip of his nose and form puddles at his feet while he watches the slick black coffin sink into the ground.

The funeral isn’t well-attended, but James is hardly surprised. Despite Dave’s extensive business network, he kept his inner circle small and his private life private. He wouldn't have wanted a big ceremony.

He probably wouldn't have wanted an enormous bouquet of yellow lilies sitting on his coffin, either, but that doesn't seem to matter. James has no idea who did the arrangements, and he doesn't really care. The Dave he knew is already long gone. The body and the burial rites are nothing more than formalities, now.

Nonetheless, he stands motionless in respect, solemnly looking on as the casket lowers and comes to a halt. His gaze flicks back up to the rest of the funeral party, and he locks eyes with Lars across the open grave.

_Fancy meeting you here._

Something twists in James’ gut as he takes in Lars’ tight black turtleneck and perfectly-tailored blazer, carefully cataloguing his upturned nose and sleek ponytail. His green eyes are still as sharp as ever, but it gives James a spark of satisfaction to note the beginnings of a receding hairline.

He looks away.

The rest of the proceedings are done in short order. They all take their turns tossing dirt on the casket, though the rain makes it a messy process; smears of moistened earth cling to James’ palm as he walks back to his rental car, making his skin feel rough and unpleasant. The rain seems to come down even harder as he reaches to fish the key fob out of his pants pocket, drenching his hair and running down the back of his neck.

He doesn’t turn around when he hears his name called. He doesn't have to. He knows it's Lars. The hurried sound of dress shoes on pavement only confirms it.

“We’re meeting at the bar for a toast,” Lars tells him, standing close, and Jesus, his accent alone is enough to make James’ fingers twitch.

James hesitates before turning around, grip tightening on the car door handle. “The usual place?”

“Mustaine always was a creature of habit,” Lars shrugs, smiling jovially despite the downpour soaking them both to the bone. He tucks his hands in his pockets and tilts his chin towards the car. “Mind if I catch a ride with you?”

James nods. He climbs in and starts the engine, and Lars rounds the passenger side with a grin.

“Just like old times,” he says as he fastens his seatbelt.

 _Sure feels like it_ , James thinks. That’s exactly what he’s afraid of.

Lars is chatty on the short drive to the bar. His steady stream of chit-chat fills the silence and keeps the atmosphere light between them, and James finds himself thankful for it. He listens and interjects a few grunts of acknowledgement here and there, but for the most part keeps his focus on the road. It’s doesn’t matter that it’s been almost a decade since he last drove these streets — he still navigates the route with practiced ease, passing by landmarks and old haunts with no more than a second glance.

“How have you been, man?” Lars prods. “I mean, I haven’t seen you in— Shit, must be seven or eight years, now. Last I heard, you were living off the land in Vermont, or something.”

“I’ve been good,” James nods, checking the rearview mirror. “Keeping to myself, staying out of trouble. Hunting. That sort of thing.”

“That’s great,” Lars says. His sincerity falls somewhat flat, but James doesn’t care. “Y’know, it’s so crazy being back here. And Mustaine… I mean, fuck, who could have seen that one coming?”

James grimaces. Truth is, it had blindsided them all — he himself had hardly believed it when Junior told him over the phone, but there it was: Dave Mustaine had eaten his Beretta M9 for dinner, and would he please come pay his final respects.

Needless to say, the funeral had been closed casket.

James shifts in his seat and flicks on the turn signal. “Part of me is surprised he even lived that long,” he admits. “I just didn’t think he’d be the one to do himself in.”

Lars’ laughter fills the car.

+

Despite the overall aura of lackluster goodwill, James is glad to see that a sizable crowd has shown up to the bar in honour of Dave’s passing. Other than Junior, he doesn't really know anyone here, but that’s not surprising; he’s spent eight years out of the trade, and the turnover is quick in this line of employment.

“This is what he would have wanted,” he says to Lars a little while later, leaning on the bar and motioning around the room. “None of that flowers-and-crying bullshit, y’know? Just people hanging out, drinking to his memory.”

Lars scoffs and polishes off his second glass of cognac. “If it were me, I would have hired a few strippers,” he says.

“You still do that shit?” James asks, not unkindly.

Lars shrugs. “Sure, why not? I’m thirty-five with fidelity issues, I may as well have fun with it.”

James’ eyes flick to Lar’s left hand, searching for a telltale glint of metal. “Are you…?”

“Married?” Lars smirks. “Nah. Tried it, hated it, got caught screwing the neighbour.”

James nods. That sounds like the Lars he knew, once upon a time when they were twenty-three and invincible.

“You hear from Cliff at all?” he asks after a second, changing the topic.

Lars mouth tightens. He shakes his head and motions for a refill. “He quit just after you did, man. Dropped clean off the grid. I haven’t heard from him since. I kinda hoped he’d show up today, but I guess not.” His chuckle is humourless when he adds, “It’s just you, me and Kirk left now, huh?”

“Jesus.”

Lars’ gaze lands somewhere over his shoulder. “Speaking of,” he says distractedly, “Hammett! Hey, Hammett!”

James barely has time to turn around before Kirk is making a beeline across the bar towards them, nearly tripping over a table and three chairs in his haste.

“Lars!” he calls out, “Aw, Lars! Buddy! Fuck, how you been, man? How have you— James! James fuckin’ Hetfield!” He stumbles to a halt, looking between them in shocked disbelief. “Oh, man, it’s been so fucking long, I don't even— Fuck, c’mere,” he mumbles, wrapping Lars up in a hug. “Oh, god, I missed you, man. Hardly recognized you with that ponytail.”

Lars laughs and pats him on the back, locking eyes with James over his shoulder and grinning. “We missed you too, buddy.”

Kirk detaches himself from Lars and turns to James. For a moment, James fears he’s going to try for a hug, but instead he just holds out a hand, eyes shining. James shakes it.

“Been awhile,” he says, and fuck if it isn't true. Gone is Kirk’s long, curly hair and baby face; in its wake, James finds jittery, kohl-rimmed eyes and a sharp chin, accented with facial hair and a lip piercing.

“We were sorry to hear about Mustaine,” Lars interjects, ever the diplomat.

Kirk ducks his head and averts his gaze. “Yeah, I— Yeah. Fuck. That was...”

“Took us by surprise,” James offers.

Kirk looks up at him with wide eyes. “Me too, yeah. All of us. I mean, he never— It’s not right, y’know? After everything, I can’t believe Dave would go out like that. He'd never…”

“I know,” James says heavily. No one ever seems to expect a suicide.

Kirk’s face falls into a troubled frown. “No, y-you don't understand, man,” he shakes his head. “This isn't _right_. Something’s not right about it, y’know? Dave wouldn’t kill himself. He just… He wouldn't. I mean, I know him, and I— Fuck. It doesn’t add up, y’know?”

He looks between James and Lars with something akin to a silent plea, but neither of them react. James watches his expression crumble, all the fire draining from his voice.

“It’s not right,” he repeats weakly.

When he looks back up at James with that desperate, sad sort of expression, it’s easy to see that his pupils are dilated beyond the point of normal. James gets the feeling he may have taken the edge off with something a little extra tonight. He looks wounded. Lost.

“I’m sorry, man,” James says lamely, because that's all he has to offer. “Dave and I may not have always seen eye-to-eye, but I liked him. I was sad to hear the news.”

“Yeah,” Kirk says, ‘Sure.”

The mood abruptly falls flat after that. When the bartender passes Lars his drink, James stops him to hand over a few bills to cover his tab.

“I should be going,” he announces to Kirk and Lars. “I’d love to stay and catch up, but I have some business to take care of, so. It was good to see you both.”

Kirk nods despondently. “Yeah, man. It was nice to see you. Give— Give me a call sometime, huh? We can catch up, y’know.”

“Sure thing,” James says, even though he knows full well that the chances of that are close to zero.

“You staying in town?” Lars asks as he stands to leave.

James hesitates. “Just for the night. I’m catching a plane tomorrow.”

“I’ll come with you,” Lars nods, as if that settles everything. He takes one last sip of his drink, leaves the rest, and gets up to follow James out.

James doesn't even bother protesting.

+

They stop in at a liquor store on the way back to James’ motel, per Lars’ insistence. James picks up a bottle of the first thing he sees — Jameson — and two cheap plastic cups leftover from St. Patrick’s Day, and pays with cash. He’s already resigned himself to a wicked hangover tomorrow morning.

They pull into the motel parking lot ten minutes later, and Lars follows James up the stairs to his room. He either doesn’t have luggage or just doesn’t give a shit, because he hasn’t brought anything with him.

 _Or maybe he’s not planning to stay,_ James thinks.

It's not a nice place, but it's far from the worst James has stayed in — just a room with a dresser, a closet, a tiny bathroom and a queen bed. The walls are beige. The comforter is brown. The carpet is brown. It's forgettable, and James appreciates that.

“Fuck, I’m still damp from the damn funeral,” Lars mutters as soon as the door swings closed behind them. “You mind if I strip?”

James grunts in vague assent. He looks the other way as Lars shrugs out of his blazer and peels off his sweater, hearing them land on the foot of the bed, followed by his shoes being kicked off and his flies being undone.

It’s too familiar. 

When he does finally turn around, Lars is standing in the bathroom doorway in his underwear, toweling his hair. James cracks the bottle and takes a seat on the bed, toeing off his cheap dress shoes and stretching his legs out in front of him.

The discomfort is still raging in his system, but the Jameson helps; in the end, it only takes a quarter of a bottle shared between them before he feels up to talking, and conversation flows easily enough. Even with so many years apart, he can't quite shake the familiarity of shooting the shit with Lars. A part of him really did miss the fucker.

“So what d’you do for work these days?” Lars asks, once James is loosened up enough to shrug off his suit jacket and ditch his tie.

“Security,” James tells him frankly. “Up until two weeks ago, anyways. I got fired.”

Lars raises an eyebrow, and James preemptively waves a hand in dismissal. “Broke some kid’s nose for harassing the dancers,” he explains. “Except he had a rich daddy, so now I’m out of a job.”

Lars scoffs and shakes his head. “Fuckers,” he says amiably, taking a swig.

“What about you, then?” James asks. “What have you been up to for work?”

“Tax accounting,” Lars replies with a smirk, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and passing the bottle back to James. He laughs. “Can you believe that? I used to cook books for Dave fuckin’ Mustaine, and now I’m stuck filing fuckin’ tax returns for your average joe. What a downgrade.”

James grins and shakes his head, raising the bottle to his lips. He relishes the burn of it going down.

Beside him, Lars sighs and rubs his eyes. “Åh min gud,” he mutters. “What happened to us, huh? We used to be kickass, and now we’re just a couple o’ sad sacks drinking in bed.”

“Still better than bedding down for a dirt nap,” James offers, fixing his gaze on the far wall. After a moment he adds, “D’you believe any of that shit Kirk said? About Dave?”

“What about it?”

“That he wouldn’t have killed himself.”

Lars shrugs. “Who’s to say? Before Junior called, I hadn’t spoken to him in three years.”

“Right. But does it seem… weird, to you?”

“I dunno, maybe. I wasn't exactly his best buddy. Maybe he got depressed, skipped a few therapy sessions… Who fuckin’ knows.”

James is quiet for a moment. Contemplative. He takes another swig.

“Kirk isn’t exactly what I’d call a reliable witness either, y’know,” Lars adds. “No offense to the guy, but a couple years after you left, he hit the chemicals hard and I’m not sure if he’s come back up since. I wouldn't worry too much about him.”

James nods. _Pity_ , he thinks. Kirk had always been a decent guy. As decent as they come in this business, anyways. He had a real knack for gadgets, back in the day. Fixed James’ ancient stereo more times than he could count.

“What’s the use stewing about it, anyways?” Lars continues. “Dave’s gone, we’re out of the business, and you’re flying back to wherever you came from tomorrow. So let’s just fucking relax, alright?”

“Yeah,” James says, “Alright.”

A man is dead, and he can’t help but to smile.

+


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Lars rolls over beside him, muttering crossly about a headache, James marvels how a simple night of drinking and talking about nothing can make it seem like he never left in the first place.

+

After eight years, James had almost forgotten what it’s like to wake up with a hangover and Lars Ulrich in his bed.

Almost.

He finds it strangely endearing that after all this time, Lars still sleeps the same way — sprawled out on his stomach with his face in the pillow, limbs flung out every which way. Just one more thing that hasn't changed.

He’s snoring a little, with soft, rhythmic _whuffs_ of breath. It’s a comforting change to wake up next to another living being instead of just the wide, empty silence of his apartment.

Lars has filled out a little over the years they’ve been apart, James notes. He’s a bit thicker around the chest and middle, now, with a little more meat to his arms and a little less hair at his temples. A couple new scars dot his skin here and there. The crows feet branching from the corners of his eyes are a new development, too; all signs of days gone by.

James looks away, feeling strangely nostalgic. He sits up and focuses on the window, squinting his eyes against the morning light seeping in through the blinds. His dress shirt feels tacky against his skin as he shrugs his shoulders and stretches his arms.

Up until yesterday, he didn’t know if he’d ever see Lars again. And if he’s being honest with himself, he didn't know if he wanted to. He and Lars didn't end off on bad terms, but they didn't end off on particularly good terms, either; things had been tense between everyone when James announced his plans to retire, but it didn’t help that Lars had been one of the first to criticize him for, quote-unquote, “jumping ship”.

It seems like a stupid thought to have now, though. All those petty squabbles seem light years away. And as Lars rolls over beside him, tucking himself in and muttering crossly about a headache, James marvels how a simple night of drinking and talking about nothing can make it seem like he never left in the first place.

+

“What time does your flight leave?” Lars asks, leaning in the bathroom doorway as James brushes his teeth.

“Four,” James says, and spits. He meets Lars’ gaze in the mirror. “Why?”

“We could get breakfast,” Lars offers, his expression neutral.

James rinses his mouth and spits again, then shrugs. He doesn't have a good reason to turn Lars down, so he doesn't.

When they end up at a Waffle House two hours later, Lars is wearing the same clothes he wore to the funeral yesterday. He doesn’t seem to care. His hair is down this time, though, falling around his face in messy waves. James thinks it makes him look less severe. Younger, maybe. Softer. Less like the businessman he’s always pushed himself to be.

“This feels like a dream,” Lars says, spearing a bite of pancake and stuffing it in his mouth.

James’ hand curls a little tighter around his coffee. “What does?”

“This,” Lars waves a fork for emphasis, “You. Dave kicking the bucket. All of it.”

James just shrugs. He’s starting to feel like he shrugs a lot when Lars is involved.

“I’m serious, man. In a few hours you’re gonna fly home to whatever wood cabin you crawled out of, I’m gonna go back to sitting in my dingy fucking cubicle in San Fran, and then what? We never see each other again?”

There's a pause. James stares down into his coffee, focusing on his reflection floating in the blackness of its surface. “Guess so,” he finally says.

He thinks he registers something akin to disappointment in Lars’ tone, but he’s not sure what more he can offer — pen pals? A phone number? What would be the point?

It was nice to catch up last night, that much is true. But he and Lars live in different states, with different jobs, and different lives. After eight years spent travelling in separate directions, he’s not sure they fit like they used to.

Sometimes you have to call it quits. And if James is being honest, that point probably arrived a good four years ago, by way of a natural lack of contact.

“We used to be buddies, y’know,” Lars says after a moment. “You and me and Kirk, man. Doing Dave’s bidding. Remember that time he sent us all the way down to Buttfuck, Arizona to meet up with that guy? Huh? Fuck, that was a laugh.”

James feels his lips tug upwards despite himself. It had been a riot, all right — Kirk had come down with a fever of 103° the night before and been borderline delirious the whole way, puking his guts up in the back of the shitty sedan while James and Lars bickered over the music. Hell of a road trip, especially with seven bricks of exceptionally good cocaine hidden under the backseat floor mats.

“If I never end up in Fort Verde again, it’ll be too soon,” James chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. A woman walks past their table leading a child, who turns to stare at him with wide eyes. James smiles and watches them leave. “Pretty damn funny in retrospect, though.”

Lars saws off another bite of pancake. “We had some good times together,” he says, thoughtful. “I missed having you around, at the end, there. Mustaine got to be a real asshole right after you left. Kinda took it out on Kirk, I think. It was… Well. Things got serious. It didn’t take much longer for me to up and leave, after that.”

James nods, but doesn't reply. He’s spent enough years feeling guilty for cutting clean, and he’s not exactly keen on catching yet another round of flack for it.

To his relief, Lars just exhales a sigh and says “Anyway, enough about that shit, eh? You got a girl waiting for you back home?”

James takes another sip of coffee. He’s just about to try and wheedle himself out of answering the truth — which would be _No, not since getting my ass kicked in a nasty divorce last winter_ — when his phone starts going off at maximum volume.

“Shit, sorry,” James mutters, setting his mug down and fumbling to get it out of his pocket, ignoring the other tables turning to glance over at them. The sound is grating against the groggy remains of his headache. He hesitates when he sees the number calling, eyes flicking up to Lars’.

 _Junior,_ he mouths, then slides to answer the call. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Hi, James. Hope it's not a bad time to call, but I was hoping to catch you before you left town.”

James feels his expression fall into a frown. He’s not sure he likes the sound of that. “I’m just out to breakfast with Lars right now,” he says neutrally.

“Oh, good. That’s great, actually,” Junior says. He sounds a bit harried. “Listen, I'm just going to cut to the chase, okay? The thing is, uh… Dave left a will.”

James’ frown deepens. “A will?” he echoes, exchanging a look with Lars.

“Yeah. And you two are in it.”

“I really didn't take Mustaine for the type,” James says after a moment.

“I thought it was strange, too,” Junior says. “But it’s what he wanted. He came to me a couple weeks ago with a sealed envelope and instructions and everything. It seemed weird, at the time, but I just assumed it was meant to be some kind of precaution for future years. But now…” he falters and trails off.

“But now it seems like he was arranging his affairs,” James finishes the sentence with an exhale.

“Bingo,” Junior says, no trace of humour in his tone. “I’m sorry, man. I meant to tell you about it at the burial yesterday, but everything’s been so batshit around here that it just slipped my mind. Do you and Lars have time to meet me at Dave's place around four?”

James looks at Lars, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the handle of his coffee mug. He’s silent for a moment while he weighs his options.

He’ll have to cancel his flight, which will mean losing the deposit on his ticket. And in all likelihood, he’ll have to spend another night in town.

The thought crosses his mind that he could send Lars in his stead, but that doesn’t seem prudent; even if this isn’t a process that involves a formal reading and a notary, Junior might not appreciate that. After all, Dave’s will would essentially serve as his last earthly command, and because Junior was Dave’s trusted right-hand man up until the very end, that makes it Junior’s duty to ensure it’s carried out properly. It’s also understandable that he would be eager to settle up Dave’s ties with James for good and move on with his new duties as head honcho of the operation.

Belatedly, the hustle and bustle of the restaurant seems to catch up with James. He realizes Lars is still looking at him for an explanation.

Maybe he owes it to Dave to stick around, anyways. If the guy thought he was important enough to mention in his last will and testament after so much time had elapsed, there must be a reason.

Right?

“James?” Junior prompts on the other end of the line.

James clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we’ll be there.”

+


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James swallows thickly. He turns towards the red box in the corner of the room, his footsteps seeming loud in the cavernous silence. He bends down to open it, and the worn latch pops open easily under his fingers with a faint _click_. He hesitates before opening the lid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a 2,000 word research essay due in 24 hours and instead i am writing metallica fanfiction. excellent!

+

The drive to Dave’s place that evening is spent in silence, broken only by Willie Nelson on the radio. The quiet feels oddly heavy without Lars talking up a storm in the passenger seat.

James had dropped him off at his hotel earlier in the afternoon, before retiring to his own motel room for a much-needed nap and a change of clothes. The two of them agreed to show up at Dave’s just before four. True to his word, when James pulls into the tenant parking lot behind the building at 3:57, he sees Lars and Junior already waiting for him by the door.

Good. This’ll be quick, then.

James doesn't know Junior well, other than the few brief conversations they've had over the phone and surrounding the funeral. He seems like a nice guy — grown into himself, for sure. A far cry from the weedy, nervous-looking underling he was when James left so long ago.

He pulls into a vacant parking space and takes a breath. He only has a second to gather his thoughts before he kills the engine and gets out, making sure the door is locked behind him. The rental car beeps amiably in response.

“Hey, man,” Junior raises a hand in greeting as he approaches.

James nods. “Hey.”

He stops between them, nodding to Lars. A moment passes before Lars says, “So, you got the keys, Junior?”

“Ready when you are,” Junior nods, pulling the ring from his pocket and stepping towards the door. “And, um. You can call me David, if you like,” he adds with a faint smile.

The ‘ _now that there's only one of us left_ ’ part goes unspoken.

“So they just gave you free reign of his place, huh?” Lars asks as they trudge up the narrow staircase, Junior leading the charge.

“I’m Dave’s next-of-kin, actually,” Junior shrugs. “According to the civil code, his tenancy is technically still valid for thirty days after his last rent payment, which was three days before he… Y’know. Anyways, the landlord gave me access to clean out the rest of his stuff before that time is up.”

Junior holds the door open as they reach the second floor, then directs them over to the door marked ‘202’. As he slides the key home, James and Lars exchange a glance, no doubt wondering the same thing.

“He didn't, uh,” Lars starts. “Is this where…?”

“Oh, no,” Junior swings the door open and steps inside, James and Lars following hesitantly after. “No, it was in his car.” He gives a curt, humourless laugh — “Fitting, maybe. He loved that machine more than anything. But I… I had it sent to the scrapyard, once the police were done with it. Would have been impossible to clean.” He goes quiet, fiddling with the keys in his hand.

“Sorry to hear it,” James offers.

Junior meets his eye, then looks away. “Thanks,” he says softly, pocketing the keys. “Anyways, um. Welcome to Casa Mustaine,” he gestures to their surroundings.

To James’ vague disappointment, it looks exactly like any other apartment he's ever seen: green couch, modest kitchenette, beige walls, and a flatscreen TV. Nondescript in every sense of the word. The only real sign that this abode once belonged to Dave Mustaine is a record player in the corner and a single, worn _UFO_ poster on the far wall.

“Pretty sparse,” Lars remarks.

Junior nods. “He only moved into this place a month or two ago. There was an issue with some business partners at the last apartment, and it became… Unsafe.”

 _Hazards of the job_ , James thinks. He’s not unfamiliar.

“Well, it’s a hell of a lot nicer than our digs back in the day,” he can't help but to remark. “You remember that very first place we all shared, Lars?”

“Pretty hard to forget waking up with roaches in my hair every morning,” Lars snorts.

“Man, Dave could fry up a mean baloney sandwich, though,” James reminisces. He turns to Junior with a raised eyebrow. “He ever make you one of those?”

Junior shakes his head with a subdued smile. “No, can’t say I ever had the pleasure.”

He gives James and Lars a few more moments to look around the place, then ducks his head and says, “I, uh. I really hate to rush this, but if you don't mind, I’d like to read the note.”

Lars looks to James, then back to Junior. “Fine by me,” he agrees. “I still don't understand why Dave would put me in it, though. I really don't.”

“Either of us,” James amends. “I’m as confused as you are.”

“Why don't we all have a seat,” Junior suggests, motioning to the couch. He pulls a chair out from the tiny dining table and drags it over, taking a seat opposite them.

James leans forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He watches Junior pull a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfold it.

“Well?” Lars prompts, “What’s it say?”

Junior takes a breath. His hands are shaky, making the edges of the paper shudder ever so slightly. “‘To James Hetfield,’” he reads aloud, “‘I give my record collection in its entirety. And to Lars Ulrich, I give my record player.’”

Silence falls between the three of them. Junior flips the paper closed, and James frowns. “What?”

“That's it?” Lars asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Junior says. “Sorry if that was anticlimactic. I really wish I had more of an explanation, but I don't.”

James motions to the paper. “Can I see that?” 

Junior hands it to him. Written in Dave’s familiar, childlike printing are the exact words he just read off, plus a short list of a few other minor items bequeathed to more people James doesn't know.

“This doesn't make sense,” James says, scanning over the words a second, third and fourth time. “Why would he even bother with this?”

“Well, it kinda makes sense,” Lars says. “You two had some fuckin’... Y’know, memories with the vinyl. But why the player?”

The two of them turn to Junior, who raises his hands in a perplexed shrug. “I have no idea, guys. I’m sorry. I don't know why he wanted this. I don't know why he wanted any of this.”

“Right,” James says after a second. “Well, I guess we'll never know, now. Where are they, anyways? The records?”

“Bedroom,” Junior says, pointing to one of the closed doors. “In the corner, by the foot of the bed. They’re yours to take.”

Neither Lars nor Junior makes any move to get up, so James walks over to the bedroom and enters alone. He closes the door behind him as an afterthought.

The sheets have been pulled off the double bed in the center of the room, leaving the mattress bare and hostile-looking. White curtains flutter slightly in the breeze from the window, which has been propped open a couple inches, presumably to air out the space. The walls are painted a nondescript shade of light blue. A couple more posters adorn the walls here and there — _Black Sabbath, Angel,_ and _Led Zeppelin._ The decorations seem childish in a way that makes James’ chest feel tight.

It’s been a long time now since Dave was a part of James’ life. But as he stands here alone, in the bedroom of a dead man he once called his friend, it strikes him for the first time that Dave really is gone: there will be no more phone calls, or letters, or fears of being called back to do business. They never will get a chance to reunite, or to reminisce about the good old days and their teenage years of poverty and troublemaking before Dave got wise and built himself an empire.

It’s difficult to imagine Dave sleeping here less than a week ago. But if James inhales deep enough, he thinks he can catch a faint, lingering trace of human scent.

James swallows thickly. He turns towards the red box in the corner of the room, his footsteps seeming loud in the cavernous silence. He bends down to open it, and the worn latch pops open easily under his fingers with a faint _click_. He hesitates before opening the lid.

The smell hits him first — that faint, pleasant odour or aged paper. The records are lined up neatly inside the box with their titles facing upwards, edges worn with use.

When James first met Dave, the two of them used to spend hours upon hours hanging around in Dave’s room listening to these. _Motörhead, Aerosmith, Zeppelin…_ you name it. They had nowhere to be, so instead they’d just get baked and watch the world go by.

James absently reaches out to run a finger over the spine of _Presence_. Maybe Lars is right, he wonders. Maybe Dave started to feel sentimental as he counted down his last days, and this strange offering is his attempt at bridging the gap between them from beyond the grave. Maybe—

There’s a knock on the door, and it opens with a soft creak. Junior peeks his head in. “You good?”

James pauses with his index finger tracing over _Sad Wings Of Destiny_. Then he clears his throat and withdraws, gently lowering the lid and latching it shut once more.

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet, “I’m good. Mind giving me a hand loading these down to the car?”

+


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Did any of that seem weird to you?” Lars asks after a moment, stuffing his hands in his pockets._   
>  _“More like all of it,” James replies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, i meant to post this way sooner. whoops!  
> here it is though, and i anticipate i'll have a few more other WIPs to post within the coming weeks... cause if there's one positive aspect of being trapped at home for the next three months, it's that i'm gonna have a lot more time to write.  
> i hope you guys and your loved ones are safe, and that you're all managing as well as can be expected. we're in this together!

+

By the time they manage to load the records into the trunk of James’ rental car, the time is fast approaching five P.M.

“Alright,” Junior says, panting slightly from the exertion as he looks down at the red box. “You guys need me for anything else?”

“You're free to go,” James tells him. He reaches out to clap Junior on the shoulder. “And thanks for this, man. It means a lot, after all these years.”

“Of course,” Junior replies, but his easy smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s easy to see that he’s distracted — the guy is wound up tight like a dancing ballerina, and who can blame him? “D’you have a place to stay tonight?” he makes sure to ask regardless.

James waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. Just some shitty motel on the other side of town. I’ll be catching the next plane out tomorrow.”

“Sure thing,” Junior nods. “Travel safe.”

James bids him goodbye and slams the trunk shut, watching him walk off and wave to Lars on the other side of the parking lot. The two of them appear to exchange a quick word before Junior gets into his beat-up little Mazda and peels out of the parking lot.

Lars turns to face James for a moment, shielding his eyes against the evening sun, and then crosses the lot to meet him. The two of them look off into the distance where Junior disappeared around the corner.

“Did any of that seem weird to you?” Lars asks after a moment, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“More like all of it,” James replies. He sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he has in months. It occurs to him that on top of the additional expense of the plane ticket, rental car and motel room, it’s most likely going to cost him a small fortune to transport Dave’s records home.

“Man,” Lars sighs, “What a fuckin’ day.” He turns to James and says, “Hey, you wanna grab a drink, man? I was thinking of calling Kirk to see if he wants to meet up.”

James shakes his head. “Thanks, but I should head back. I need to sort out my airfare, extend the car rental and all that.”

“Will I see you before you leave?”

James looks away. “You can stop by my room later, if you want.”

“Alright,” Lars agrees. “I’ll see you later, then.”

He turns on his heel and starts walking back to his car. James watches him go for a second before getting into his own, a vague sense of unease nagging at him. He shoots one last glance up at the balcony of Dave’s last earthly home, then starts the engine, fastens his seatbelt, and puts the car in reverse.

+

Despite the motel's Wi-Fi cutting out every thirty minutes, James does eventually manage to book his ticket and get in contact with the rental car company. Not that they make it easy; by the time he finally gets everything sorted out, he finds himself wishing he had taken Lars up on that offer for a drink.

He’s freshly-showered and on the verge of dozing off when a knock sounds at the door. He shuffles over and checks the peephole — force of habit — before opening it to find Lars standing there, suitcase at his side.

“Surprise,” Lars says, complete with lackluster jazz hands. “Mind if I crash with you again?”

James doesn't. He steps aside to let Lars enter.

“Thanks,” Lars mutters, hauling his luggage inside and setting it up against the far wall.

James closes the door after him, stifling a yawn. “Did you end up seeing Kirk?”

“I… Yeah,” Lars says with a wince. “He’s, um. He’s not taking this whole thing too well. I ended up driving him home, and then I dropped the rental car off and took a cab over here.”

He shrugs out of his leather jacket and drapes it over the suitcase, then flops down on the side of the bed, tiredly rubbing at his eyes. “This whole thing is so fucked up. You should have seen Kirk tonight, man. He showed up high as shit and almost got us kicked out, and he was saying all this weird shit about Dave… What a fuckin’ mess.”

He takes his hands away from his face and looks blankly up at the ceiling for a second, then tilts his head back to look up at James. “Did you know that they fucked?”

“Dave and Kirk?” James says, half of a frown descending over his expression. Lars nods. “Really?” Another nod. “Huh. No shit.”

“Yeah. I mean what the fuck, right?”

James shrugs. “Guess it makes sense, maybe. Dave wasn’t always great at keeping things professional.” The mattress springs creak as he takes a seat with his back against the headboard, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Lars snorts. “Understatement. But Kirk is… I mean, he’s off the rails about it. Which is why I’m here, I guess, ‘cause it's my last night in town and I don't want to spend it feeling shitty in a hotel room by myself.” He laughs a little in his self-deprecation — that familiar, boyish laugh — and reaches out to curl one hand loosely around James’ ankle.

“Misery loves company,” James says. It feels natural to reach out and run a hand over Lars’ hair. For a moment, neither of them says anything.

When they first met, it used to bother James how physical Lars was with his affections. It seemed like he always needed to _touch_ ; an arm around a waist here, a hug or a kiss there. Kind of grabby. Kind of annoying.

It could have been chalked up to cultural differences, but James got the feeling that it was more like a comfort thing for Lars. Like maybe he needed something to ground himself. To feel connected. After a while, it became a normal part of how James perceived him, and later on, in those first few months after his departure, the sense of loss truly was physical.

Maybe he missed this more than he thought.

Lars is the first to break the silence, dragging James out of his reverie. He yawns and props himself up on one elbow, says, “So what about those records, huh? You take a look at ‘em yet?”

Jesus, he looks tired. The dark circles under his eyes give his face a certain dull, listless quality.

“Haven't gotten around to it,” James shakes his head. “I will when I get home.”

“Oh c’mon,” Lars pushes, sitting up, “let’s take a look. For old times’ sake. Where are they, anyways?”

James points to the opposite corner of the room, where the red box has been tucked out of the way beside the credenza. Lars is over to it in a flash, dragging it back out and flipping the lid with far less reverence than James had this afternoon.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” James watches him begin to pore over the collection, fingers slipping deftly over the spines.

Lars pauses, slowly pulling a pink cover up out of the box. “Oh, fuck,” he says in awe. “Oh, no fucking way, man.”

He holds it up for James to see: _Paradoxx. Plan of Attak_. The name doesn't ring any bells, but Lars seems excited as he examines the cover — “This is some serious fuckin’ collector’s shit, dude! You know how much one of these costs? This is like…” he trails off, reaching inside to pull the record out and stopping short on a frown. “Hang on, there's...”

Something falls out onto the carpet. Lars’ mouth drops open. “No,” he says, “No fuckin’ way.”

James sits up, suddenly alert, but the question dies on his lips: there, on the grungy carpet, lies a thin stack of dollar bills. As he watches, Lars pulls out another.

And another.

And another.

“No way,” Lars repeats in faint disbelief.

He keeps going until there are nine thin stacks laid out on the carpet in front of him, and a silence falls. He looks up at James with wide eyes.

“Jesus,” James mutters, getting up off the bed to join him. “The fuck is that doing in there?”

Lars’ gaze flicks back to the box. “Do you think…?”

“One way to find out,” James says, and reaches down to pull another out — _Still Alive And Well_. When he slides his fingers into the slit, there’s no record inside; just nine more thin stacks.

He and Lars wordlessly repeat the process a few more times — _Presence, Killers, Powerslave, Ace of Spades, Phenomenon_ and _Dirty Deeds Done Cheap_ , all with the same result.

“There’s gotta be at least seventy records in here,” Lars says after a second, giving a voice to James’ thoughts. “And if they’re all the same, that’s—...”

“A lot of fucking cash,” James says slowly, looking down at the scattered covers and sleeves.

He picks one of the stacks up and examines it, finding ten crisp $100 bills held together with a thin paper band. If the same denomination can be assumed true for all of the rest, that means nine grand in each record. And if Lars’ low-ball estimation of seventy records is correct, they could be looking at over half a million dollars.

The thought does not fill him with excitement or elation, but rather a cold, hard lump of suspicion.

“Counterfeit?” Lars suggests weakly, but James just shakes his head.

Not in this line of work, and not hidden like this.

He crouches down and picks _Angel_ out of the box, flipping the cover over in his hands and smoothing one palm over its surface, then reaches inside of it. A strange, tiny bit of sadness flickers through him as he pulls out nine more stacks and lets them fall at his feet.

“Dave loved his vinyl,” James says absently. “They were his prized possessions, back when I knew him. He had two, maybe three hundred, all perfectly stored.”

Lars is quiet for a second, thumbing through a stack of bills. “Guess the money mattered more in the end,” he finally says. The symbolism is almost sickening. “Jesus. The fuck are you gonna do now?”

James shakes his head. “Not a fucking clue.”

Can’t take it home on a plane, that's for sure. He'd be sitting in a white room for questioning faster than you can say ‘I swear I didn't know that was in there’.

Although the prospect of half a million dollars sitting at his feet is a tempting prospect, the dubious legality of its origins leaves a bad taste in James’ mouth. He’s been around the block long enough to know that money doesn't just come from thin air — and where there’s money, there’s nearly always trouble.

“Should we call Junior?” Lars asks after a moment.

“No,” James says, almost without considering it. He smooths an agitated hand over his hair. “No. If he didn't know about it, that means Dave didn't want him to know about it,” he decides.

Lars lets the money fall to the floor with the rest. “Shit,” he says with a heavy exhale. He licks his lips and looks at James.

He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it is, James never finds out: before Lars can speak, there’s a pounding at the door, and then everything promptly goes to shit.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, love u all


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to James that this is bad.
> 
> As in, _really bad_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK, and also very sorry for the delay! 
> 
> honestly, i'm still not super satisfied with the pacing of this chapter, so it's taken me a little while to whip it into shape and headed in the right direction... but here it is anyways.  
> thank you for tuning in and being patient with me! ;-)
> 
> tw for some violence, not super graphic.

+

James doesn't even have time to go over and check the peephole before the door comes flying open, slamming back against the wall with a deafening bang. He has no time to prepare himself as a tall man comes barreling in towards him, and then all of a sudden his own fist is connecting with the guy's chin — a simple reflex, honed by years of self-defence.

The man stumbles directly into James’ chest, and James shoves him back. Hard. The intruder falls off-kilter but doesn't go down, instead bracing himself against the credenza and propelling himself back against James, sending him tumbling to the ground. His left elbow whacks the record box on the way down. It sends a bolt of pain shooting up through his arm as his breath is knocked from his lungs.

Fuck, he thinks as his gaze locks onto Lars, who is frozen in place beside the bed, staring back at him with wide, shocked eyes. James doesn't have time to tell him to run before the man’s boot lands directly in his gut. He feels his mouth drop open in a soundless groan, eyes bugging wide.

“What—” he croaks out, arms instinctively raising to shield his face.

The money, he thinks, the thought frantic and confused as the intruder winds up for another kick. There’s no other reason why someone would break into his motel room.

James tries to grab the man’s leg as the boot makes contact with his ribs a second time, but only half-succeeds; the man slips free and kicks again, this time catching James' fingers.

James grunts in pain. He makes another swipe, this time grabbing the intruder's ankle, temporarily putting him off-balance; the man grunts and wobbles, his foot locked in James’ grip, one hand flying up to his waistband.

A pistol, James registers with a shocking amount of clarity. Of course he's got a fucking pistol.

He draws his leg up in an attempt to kick, but before he can lash out, Lars strikes, fast as a fucking snake. James watches him lunge as if in slow motion, and then suddenly, the intruder is hitting the ground, feet sliding on the discarded record covers as his feet are knocked out from under him. His head hits the bedpost with a solid, meaty sort of sound and he falls aside, hitting the ground hard. James watches as his body gives a heaving shudder, feet twitching as if to kick, and then goes still.

For a long moment, there's pure silence between them. The whole thing is over just as suddenly as it began, leaving James blinking up at the ceiling in shock, struggling to process what the fuck just happened. He lifts an arm to cradle his abdomen and swallows, breathing heavily.

“Hvad fanden,” Lars says blankly. He's staring down at the man lying prone on the floor.

James doesn't speak Danish, but he's spent enough time around Lars to be able to translate that sentiment. He wheezes a little as he props himself up into a sitting position against the wall. The motel room door is still wide open, knocked askew on its hinges.

“Oh, god,” Lars says. He clenches and unclenches his fists, the hints of a tremor jittering through his knuckles. “What the fuck just.” He cuts himself off, shifting his stance and rubbing his forehead. “I mean, who the fuck—?”

He takes a breath and turns away, looking towards the door for a long moment, then turns back. “Oh, god. Is he fucking dead?”

_..._

_Shit._

James sets his sights on the body lying crumpled motionless beside the bed, feeling a wave of dread rush through him. He hesitates for second before slowly getting to his feet and shifting in for a closer look.

The intruder must be around twenty-five or thirty, tops, with close-cropped brown hair and a five o’clock shadow. As James crouches down to check for breath, he finds himself slightly relieved to confirm that the man is unfamiliar in every way; the stain of red darkening the carpet is hint enough that he won't find anything, as is the smell of piss permeating the air.

He checks for a pulse, anyways, mostly out of some twisted sense of duty — nothing. It's only when he leans in closer that he sees the true extent of the damage, where a portion of the man's skull has been caved in by the blow. His brown eyes are fixed and unseeing.

It occurs to James that this is bad.

As in, _really bad._

“He’s…?”

"Yeah," James says heavily, rousing himself with a shake of his head. He feels sick to his stomach.

His knees pop as he straightens back up. He stalks over to the open doorway and pokes his head out, checking both ways to see if anyone else is outside, and feeling dimly relieved when he finds no other sign of life in the parking lot. The night is quiet and dark as cars whizz by on the neighbouring road.

"We need to go," he says after a long moment, stepping back inside and taking a second to push the door back into place as far as it will go. It's crooked, dangling lamely from its hinges, but that doesn't matter. The damage deposit is the last thing on his mind right now.

He moves back to Lars and quickly starting to gather up the record covers and the money. His motions are harried as he scrabbles at the dirty carpet. “We need to get out, and fast, or we’re going to have a lot of fuckin’ explaining to do.”

In his periphery, Lars lifts a hand to his mouth. “Oh, fuck,” he says after a moment. "Are you kidding? Please tell me you're kidding." He laughs in disbelief. "I’m too goddamn old for this shit, James. I can't— What the fuck?”

James feels his jaw tighten, shifting into business mode. This is not the time for either of them to lose their heads.

"Hey," he says sharply, snapping his fingers to recenter Lars' attention. "Focus, man. If someone heard that and called it in, the cops could already be on the way. We need to get our shit and get the fuck out.”

“It's about the money, right?” Lars continues, not hearing a word James has just said. "It has to be. So we... I mean, can just leave it, right? We’ll leave the box behind, and— and they’ll see the body and put two and two together.”

James shakes his head again, haphazardly shoving the bills and the album covers back into the box. “No. The money, maybe, but the box is— It’ll just be more suspicious.” He exhales, ribs sparking in pain, and rubs his forehead. “Fuck. We don't have time. The motel owner saw me, Lars. I paid for the room with credit, I…”

He latches the lid and takes a deep breath before standing up. A strange sense of calm settles over him, floating him along on the wings of the adrenaline currently buzzing through his veins. He stands there for a long minute, considering. 

The money is the motive, sure. That part makes sense. Doesn't explain how the guy knew about it, though, or how he knew that James has it, or where James would be. Maybe he was tailing him, watching the room.

But he came alone, and fairly unprepared, which means he probably assumed James would be alone and asleep. An easy target.

If Lars hadn't showed up when he did—

Well.

James takes a deep breath, not letting himself think too hard about it. Now isn't the time to play detective, he knows; right now, they just need to buy themselves some time to sort their shit out and get a good cover story. Preferably, one that doesn't involve gang ties and a shit ton of drug money.

“Who knew you would be here?” James finally asks, breaking the silence.

Lars shakes his head. "No one." He looks back down at the body, something akin to revulsion blooming on his face. "Or… Fuck, I guess Kirk, maybe, if he remembers in the morning. I don’t know, I didn't—”

“Did anyone follow you?” James cuts him off. “Or— Or approach you? Did you notice anything odd?”

“No!” Lars snaps defensively. “Excuse me if I wasn't exactly looking over my fucking shoulder, _James_. I thought we were through with all this goddamn bullshit.”

“Keep your fuckin’ voice down. I’m just trying to think this through.”

“Sure,” Larks scoffs, every inch of him strung taut. “Yeah, that's a great idea. Let's draw out a diagram and paint a picture while we wait for the cops to show up and throw us into the back of the car, huh? Is that what you wanna do?” He laughs again, but the sound is strangled and hysterical.

“Lars,” James starts.

“No,” Lars shakes his head. “No, no, no. We need to ditch the money and take the body with us. We can get in the car and—”

James steps forward and grabs him by the shirt just to shut him up. “And then what?” he counters, getting in Lars’ face. “You might be in the clear if no one saw you, but my name is on the room, Lars. I’m an ex-con with a shady job history, and there is a body on my floor. And the car is a fucking rental, or did you forget?”

Lads swallows, licks his lips. His eyes are darting side to side. “James—”

“No,” James says firmly, resisting the urge to bodily shake him. He can feel the rapid rise and fall of Lars’ chest, hot under his knuckles. “Fucking listen to me, okay? We’re going to take our shit, we’re going to leave, and we’re going to take the money with us. Neither of us recognize this guy, so he might not have any obvious ties to us. Right? The cops’ll assume I killed him, but they might think it was a drug deal gone wrong, or breaking and entering, or some shit like that. Who knows. We’ll take the car and then drop it somewhere, try to wire another if we can."

He's spitballing as he goes. His mind is racing at three hundred miles an hour, trying to recall every stupid cop show he's ever seen, every murder case he's ever heard of, every body Dave ever made disappear.

“We’ll get out of here and call Junior," James continues, the thought clicking into place like a puzzle piece. "He’ll help us. He might still have Dave’s connections with the police, or...” He loosens his grip on the fabric of Lars’ shirt. “Fuck, man. I don't fucking know. But we have to try, don't we?"

Lars gives a weak, humourless scoff. “What, to make a run for it?” he asks. “James, we wouldn't last two fucking days. I’m not— I’m a fucking accountant, okay, and I just killed someone."

James is silent for a moment. “You did," he finally says, letting go of Lars entirely. "Even if it was an accident, or in self-defence, or whatever the fuck a court of law would have to say about it. But it'll be on my head, and I have no way to explain the money or the motive. So unless you're planning on selling Junior out and getting killed that way, we can either start running, or commit to going down for it. Your choice.”

With that, he steps back. He rounds the bed, avoiding the expanding stain of blood as he begins to collect his belongings.

\+ + +

The strange sense of calm lasts until James has got the car pointed towards the edge of town, going forty miles an hour with Lars staring out the passenger side window.

“Try him again,” James instructs, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. A sharp, throbbing ache is starting to set in along his knuckles and fingers.

Lars sighs and wordlessly presses the green call button for the fifth time. It rings, and then goes to voicemail. "Probably on silent,” he says. “I only have his daytime number, not his business number.”

“Shit,” James mutters. “Fuck. Can you— Try Kirk, okay? Just try Kirk’s number. Maybe he knows how to get a hold of him.”

Lars does, but to no avail. There's no answer. "Still passed the fuck out," he listlessly surmises, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He was barely conscious when I last saw him."

“Where does he live?” James presses. “You dropped him off, right? What's the address?”

Lars obediently rattles it off, already punching the address into his phone’s GPS.

That's another thing, James thinks; the phones have got to go. He’s seen enough cop shows to know that there's a possibility they could be tracked.

It hits him, all of a sudden, how absolutely fucking batshit insane this plan was. Fleeing a crime scene is a felony in its own right, as is grand theft auto — and even if they can manage to get out of here, they have no money and no place to go. No fake IDs. No weapons. Nothing. He has no idea what course of action he's just put them on, and no idea what's going to happen next.

They’re utterly and completely fucked.

James is almost forty, for chrissakes. He has a mortgage. He has a house waiting for him on the other side of the country, and a car, and a favourite restaurant. He was supposed to have cut clean from all this shit eight years ago. He was supposed to be out. He was supposed to have a wife, and a family, and now what does he have?

He has a record box full of dirty money sitting in his trunk, someone who wants him dead for reasons he doesn't know— and Lars, who he never could quite shake.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and checks the rear view mirror, part of him expecting to see a flash of red and blue lighting up the road behind them.

Jesus. He needs a fucking drink.

“Take the next right,” Lars says quietly, cutting through his thoughts.

James flicks on the turn signal and merges. He glances over at Lars, who’s chewing on his thumbnail, gaze fixed blankly out the windshield. His hair falls around his face in waves, knees pressed tightly together. He looks young. He looks _scared._

James reaches out before he can think better of it, one big hand landing on Lars’ thigh.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says. “Alright? We’ll get everything sorted out. We just need to get a hold of Junior.”

“Right,” Lars mumbles, but he doesn't look up from his phone. “There’s a left turn coming up in two blocks.”

\+ + +

The address Lars directs him to is a tiny two-storey residence — a nondescript house, appearing in fairly good condition, with a slightly-unkempt lawn and a grey Honda Civic in the driveway.

“You're sure this is it?” James asks doubtfully as he pulls up to the curb. All the place is missing is a picket fence.

Lars nods once in affirmation, and James kills the engine. He hesitates, staring at the darkened windows of the house, then cracks his door and gets out. Lars follows close on his heels.

“So, what, we’re just gonna knock and ask to use the phone?” Lars asks as they cross the lawn.

James shrugs. He honestly hadn't thought that far ahead, but now that they’re here, that seems like the most obvious course of action. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Lars doesn't have a reply to that, so James goes ahead and rings the doorbell. There's no answer, so he rings again. And again. And again. And finally, just stabs his thumb into the button and waits.

It takes about thirty more seconds of constant ringing for there to be a thump and muffled curses from inside. James lets off of the button and waits for the door to swing open, revealing Kirk, clad in nothing but a pair of red briefs. His hair has gone flat on one side, and there's eyeliner smeared down his cheeks. His eyes are unfocused as he greets his visitors.

“Fuckin’ doorbell, man, why’d you hafta...” he squints. “James?”

“Hi,” Lars contributes dully.

James sees no point in beating around the bush on this one, so he dives right in: “We're in trouble,” he says. “Big fuckin’ trouble. We need to talk to Junior.”

Kirk pauses. “Oh,” he says after a second. He rubs one eye and squints even more, as if that’ll somehow help him see through the haze of his inebriation. “Well, you… Uh, come in, I guess.”

He steps aside, steadying himself against the door. James takes one last glance around the street behind them before stepping inside.

They can't be too careful, now.

“Let me make some, uh, coffee,” Kirk offers as the three of them make their way into the modest kitchen. He fumbles to flip the lightswitch for a second, and then the ceiling lights flicker to life, buzzing faintly as they warm up. “Or… Tea? Is tea better?”

“Coffee’s fine,” James tells him. “Where’s your phone?”

Kirk shuffles robotically over to the coffee machine, one hand clutching onto the counter to steady himself. “Burner’s in the drawer under the microwave,” he directs, pointing haphazardly behind him.

James moves to the drawer and pulls it open, revealing a mess of sticky notes, lighters, paper clips, and takeout menus. It takes a moment for him to dig through the chaos until he finally catches a glint of silver.

“What’s his number?” James asks, withdrawing the small flip phone. He pries it open and waits a second for the blue screen flicker to life.

There's a clatter from behind him as the coffee scoop hits the counter. James turns around in time to see a small heap of coffee grounds fall to the floor.

“Ah, shit,” Kirk mutters, fumbling with the coffee machine. He stops and shakes his head as if to focus. “What— Sorry, whose number?”

Oh, great.

Lars shoots James a warning look. It's the familiar, chiding one: _be nice_. He comes up behind Kirk and gently curls a hand around his wrist, says, “Let me do it, okay? I've got this.”

Kirk doesn't protest. He shifts aside to make room for Lars, relinquishing the coffee machine. "There's... filters," he says vaguely, waving a hand. He leans his ass back against the oven and swings his liner-smeared eyes around to James. The half-lidded, unconcerned quality of his gaze is infuriating.

"I'm looking for Junior's number," James prompts him again, his tone bordering on curt.

Kirk idly scratches at his narrow chest. “Right, right. Yeah. Junior. The, uh. There's an address book," he says, pointing over James’ shoulder. James follows the motion, finding a little black book tucked in beside the microwave.

“He’s under M,” Kirk says as he flips it open. “For Mustaine.”

He gives a dopey laugh, then wipes at his nose and abruptly goes quiet. It's not a happy sound. Lars presses something on the coffee machine and it whirs to life behind them.

James feels Kirk's eyes on him as he moves back into the living room to make the call. He carefully punches in the number on the page and then folds the contacts book closed, tucking it under his arm and holding the phone up to his ear. He leans one shoulder up against the wall as it starts to ring. From the kitchen, he hears Lars say something to Kirk in a low voice.

The other end picks up on the third cycle.

“This had better be pretty fucking important, Kirk, or I swear to god I _will_ —”

“Junior,” James cuts him off, the relief unfurling sharply in his chest. “It’s James.”

There's a pause. “James?” Junior echoes, his surprise evident. “What— Are you calling from Kirk’s phone?”

“Yeah,” James says. He lifts a hand to rub his forehead. “Listen, I'm sorry to call so late, but there's been a bit of a situation. Lars and I need your help.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK... first off, i am _so_ sorry for that D-grade character death. i wanted it to be simple and uninvolved, and i feel like if i made it super in-depth it would have turned this whole chapter into way more of a complicated ordeal than it needs to be, so uh. i'm just gonna own the stupid "bonk, dead" scenario! yikes. i should not be trusted to write action scenes.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The legs of Lars' chair screech against the ground when he gets to his feet and collects their coffee mugs, brushing past James. The faucet turns on a second later, splattering weakly into the metal basin below. “What now, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn. y'all are gonna hate me for saying this, but.... sorry for not posting! i've had a lot going on in my life.  
> i do have three(+) other random smut WIPs on the go rn tho, so i'll try to get those posted soon as a consolation gift, if anyone wants 'em.  
> -  
> thank you for your patience during these difficult times - this chapter wasn't as long as i wanted it to be, but considering how poor i've been at updating this past month, i figured it would be best to post two shorter ones rather than wait to finish a long one. i love you all! 💛

+

When James hangs up the phone a half hour later, it’s with an exhaustion comparable to having his soul dragged out of his body. He flips it shut with a sharp sound and stands up from where he’d been sitting on the couch, head in his hands, and rounds the corner to where Lars and Kirk are sitting at the kitchen table. They both turn to look at him.

James meets Lars’ tired eyes and shakes his head.

He watches Lar’s brows pull together in a frown, a dark look passing like a shadow across the pallor of his face. His lips pull down a little as he tightens his grip on the handle of his coffee mug. “What did he say?”

“His ties with the five-oh are strained at the moment,” James recites what Junior told him, tone flat. “He said he doesn't know why someone would be gunning for us, but he has to keep his hands off of it. Some bullshit about his boss, and Dave’s boss… Fuck. I don't fucking know, man.”

Lars sighs. “Shit.”

The legs of his chair screech against the ground when he gets to his feet and collects their coffee mugs, brushing past James. The faucet turns on a second later, splattering weakly into the metal basin below. “What now, then?”

James lifts one hand to rub at his eyes. He’s been awake for too long, and the day’s events are starting to catch up with him in one big crescendo of exhaustion. It’s hard to believe that any of this is really happening.

“Well,” he finally says, “We run. Lay low for a little while and figure out what we’re dealing with. Not like we have much other choice, right?”

The question is rhetoric. Not like Lars has an answer, anyways; he just crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter and worrying at his lower lip. His skin looks sallow under the kitchen lights, eyes hooded and haggard.

“It’s about the records, isn't it?” Kirk inputs morosely from his seat at the dining table.

James turns to fix him with a sharp look. “The hell d’you know about that?”

Behind him, Lars sighs again. “I told him,” he says dismissively. “Earlier, when we were catching up. He couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“Did you tell anyone else?” James asks. Kirk wordlessly shakes his head. “Then let’s keep it that way.”

He turns on his heel and starts back towards the back door. “Can I have a word, Lars? Alone?”

Kirk ducks his head, picking at his nails. Lars follows James out onto the cracked, weedy concrete patio in his sock feet. The whole backyard is barely more than six hundred square feet, but at least it affords them some privacy as they stand close together in the far corner.

“You mind?” Lars asks, fishing a crumpled pack of smokes from his pocket. James shakes his head and watches as he lights up.

“I thought you quit,” he finally says.

Lars scoffs quietly. “I thought I quit a lot of things.”

Can't argue with that.

“Just tell it to me fuckin’ straight, James, okay?” he demands, careful to keep his voice down for fear of Kirk — or Kirk’s neighbours — overhearing. “What did Junior really say? What are we dealing with here?”

For a moment, James just watches him, agitatedly puffing away on his cigarette like it’s done him a personal injustice.

“Might be a rival organization,” he eventually relents. “He says he has no idea, but…”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.”

Lars is silent for a moment, contemplating. He ashes his cigarette and takes a deep drag. “You think Dave was a rat?”

James doesn’t hesitate to shake his head. “No,” he says adamantly. “The thought crossed my mind, but… No fuckin’ way. Dave was a mean motherfucker, but he was a businessman. Unless something slid seriously downhill in the time we were away, I can't imagine him playing Judas just for fun.”

Lars rubs at his forehead and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that's… I agree. But the suicide is strange, man. It’s fucking weird. And obviously that money was dirtier than usual, or else… I mean, why would someone come looking for it? How would they even know it was there?”

“Fucked if I know,” James mutters. Beside him, Lars takes another drag off his cigarette and muffles a cough into his elbow. “I’m going in circles on it, too. But either way, I don't want the fuckin’ cash. Sooner we can ditch it, the better.”

His gaze wanders to the window looking into the house and he sees Kirk, still at the table, staring motionlessly ahead. He tears his gaze away as Lars gives a humourless laugh.

“So we’re fugitives now, huh?”

James studies the chain-link fence across from them. “For a little while, at least. Junior said…” he pauses. “He asked me how much Kirk knew.”

Lars flicks the cigarette again, a spark jumping off. “And what’d you tell him?”

“I told him I didn't know,” James replies honestly. “And then he said… Well. He suggested we take Kirk with us.”

“Suggested? Or... _suggested_?”

“It was a firm suggestion.”

Lars frowns. “Why? Kirk's not exactly— Well. I mean, to put it plainly, he’s the farthest fuckin’ thing from a threat, these days. I doubt anyone would be after him. Even if someone tailed us here, they’d end up disappointed.”

James grimaces lightly. Unfortunately, he’s inclined to agree; whatever respect or obedience Kirk may have once garnered as a leader among Dave's ranks, the guy’s pretty much a burnout now, as far as he can tell.

“Maybe Junior’s just covering all his bases,” he says. “Y’know, making sure no one else gets knocked off.”

Lars exhales a huff of blue smoke. Out here in the darkness, backlit by the light from the house, his eyes seem to gleam. “Yeah, right. Or maybe he’s just trying to get Kirk out of the way for a few weeks while he settles into Dave’s throne. Pawn him off on us.”

It’s James’ turn to frown. “You mean…”

Lars shrugs. “I don’t know what I mean,” he says shiftily. “But I do know that this game is all about politics, and that everyone’s got an endgame. Maybe this is just a convenient opportunity that cropped up. Or _maybe—_ ”

James shakes his head, cutting him off. “Stop while you're ahead, Lars,” he quietly interrupts. “Junior’s on our side. He said he’d call back tomorrow and get us in contact with his guy down in New Mexico, set us up with a place to stay.” He pauses, then adds, “I don't know how much I trust him, either. But he’s not the enemy right now.”

“Right,” Lars says, reasonable as ever. He pauses for a second, examining the cherry of his cigarette as he mulls it over. “So we’re on the run, then.”

“Guess so,” James agrees.

“And we’re bringing Kirk?”

James nods. “Yeah.”

Lars snorts a laugh. He lets the butt of his smoke fall to the ground, then grinds it out under the heel of one stylish boot. “What’d I tell you, man? Just like old times.”

+

Surprisingly, Kirk puts up no fight at all when Lars fills him in on the plan. He doesn't so much as ask “why?” before disappearing elsewhere into the house, presumably to pack a bag. Maybe because he’s got nothing to lose, James supposes; or maybe because he’s just grown accustomed to doing whatever he’s told to do without question.

Kirk was always deceptively smart, though — more so than he ever let on. If there’s even a shred leftover of that happy, dopey kid James used to know, it’s likely that Kirk is picking up more information than he’s being given credit for.

If Lars is right, and Junior really is just using this whole debacle to get him out of the way for a few weeks… Well. James would be surprised if the same idea hadn't already occurred to Kirk.

“You know he’s gonna bring his stash along for the ride, ikke?” Lars says, interrupting James’ musings as they sit together at the kitchen table.

“Good,” James grunts, “That’s the least of our problems. There’s no way in hell I want to be dealing with him going cold turkey right now.”

He means it. He just hopes Kirk has enough sense to ration the shit out, too; James doesn't know what he’s on and he doesn't want to know, but the last thing they need is for him to end up sweating it out in some backwoods motel while they’re trying to keep a low profile.

Silence falls between him and Lars for a moment. Outside, the crickets can be heard chirping.

“Where will we go?” Lars finally asks.

James lowers his face, rubbing at both eyes. “I don't know,” he says truthfully. “Right now, we just need to ditch the rental and get out of the city as soon as possible. Maybe find somewhere to crash.

We’ll start off towards New Mexico tomorrow, as soon as Junior tells us where we’re headed.”

He feels Lars’ hand alight on his forearm, gently pulling one hand away from his face. “I can drive,” he offers, “If you're too tired.”

James musters up a tired smile as he leans his chin on the other hand. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

“We’ve done worse for less,” Lars reminds him, mouth twisting up into a smirk.

_Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth._

+

So an hour and a half after they arrive, they depart once again, this time with Kirk in tow.

It’s quickly decided that Lars and Kirk will take Kirk’s car and meet James at a parking lot across town, where he’ll ditch the rental, wipe it down as a precautionary measure, and chuck both of their cellphones somewhere along the way. From there on, they’ll continue with Kirk’s car and Kirk’s burner.

The plan is simple enough. Although James will be lying low, and Lars by extension, it’s likely that no one will even notice Kirk is gone; and for all they know, a one-off murder in a cheap motel room might not even make the evening news.

James reasons that even though his name is tied to the room — and that he himself is in the system for offenses incurred years prior — there’s a chance that Lars might not have been recorded anywhere on the motel premises. Other than the cab driver, Kirk, and the possibility of a security camera or two, he might be in the clear.

But they don’t know. Not for sure. And it’s a chance Lars can’t afford to take.

Right now, their main concern right now is simply to keep a low profile while they figure out how much shit they’re in, and with who.

The possibilities churn over in James’ mind as he and the rental car take their final, leisurely drive together. Strangely enough, he feels no sense of regret as he cracks the window and flings his cellphone — his firmest connection to a reformed life back in Colorado — out onto the road.

By the time Kirk and Lars pick him up from the predetermined Target parking lot forty-five minutes later, only grim determination remains.

+


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you have a plan?” Kirk eventually speaks up from the backseat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone else ever get in a weird slump where everything they write feels like hot garbage? no? just me? ok

+

By the time the three of them pull into a motel parking lot in Victorville, California, it’s four-thirty in the morning and the sky is starting to brighten. Lars is slumped up against the passenger side window with his hair in his face, his breath making a small patch of condensation against the glass.

Kirk is somehow still awake in the backseat, but he hasn’t said anything for the past forty-five minutes — just staring fixedly out the window, entirely motionless. He seems to shake himself a little when James finally pulls into the parking space and parks the car.

James’ eyes feel scratchy and dry from fatigue, but he’s glad he let Lars sleep. God knows he needed it.

“We’re here,” he announces after a moment, reaching over to gently shake Lars’ shoulder. “I need you to go in and see if we can get a room, okay?”

Lars takes a second to sit up, blearily rubbing at his face. James repeats the question.

“Yeah, okay,” Lars grumpily waves a hand. “Just give me a second, man. You— Where even are we?”

“Victorville,” James tells him, peering around the otherwise-desolate parking lot. There are no surveillance cameras as far as he can tell, but he’d still rather send Lars to book the room, just in case. “We’ll stay here for the day while we wait to hear from Junior. Just… ask for whatever room is available, it doesn’t matter. Make sure they’ll let us pay with cash.”

“Right,” Lars says tiredly, “Got it.”

He fumbles a little with the door handle on the way out. James and Kirk watch him cross the parking lot, sluggishly making his way over to the white sign declaring the main office before disappearing around the corner. All is quiet for a moment. James cracks the door open and lets one foot step out, his knee holding it open as he relishes the warm, light breeze the night air brings.

“Do you have a plan?” Kirk eventually speaks up from the backseat, after a few minutes have passed.

James doesn’t turn around to face him. Doesn’t need to. Just shakes his head and says, “Junior knows a guy.”

“D’you trust Junior?” Kirk asks. James doesn’t know what to make of his neutral, almost eerily-pragmatic tone of voice.

“Dunno,” he says after a moment of deliberation. “We only ever crossed paths a few times back in the day, so I don’t have much to go on. I think he was still working as one of Mustaine’s dealers, at the time.” He shrugs. “But if Dave trusted him, that’s gotta count for something. And we don’t have many other options, right now.”

“Yeah,” Kirk says quietly. “Dave, um— He liked Junior, y’know. Saw him as kind of a kid-brother type, maybe.”

James looks up to the rearview mirror, catching Kirk’s eye. “You two were close, weren’t you?”

“Junior?”

“Dave.”

Kirk’s gaze flicks abruptly downward. “Yeah, we— I mean, kinda, I guess. Yeah. After you and Cliff and Lars all left, it was, like… y’know, I was the only one left, or whatever.”

James nods. He’ll leave it at that. Whatever went on between the two of them is none of his business, anyways.

When Lars comes back a few minutes later, it’s with mixed news; “They’ll let us pay cash, but it has to be up-front, with an extra charge for the damage deposit. And they’ll only give us a twin room.”

James shrugs and heaves a sigh. “Sure, whatever. I’ll take the floor if I have to.”

“You think it’s a good idea to use that money?” Lars asks, his hesitation plain.

“I don’t see a way around it,” James says doggedly. “Can’t use credit, can’t use debit. I have about thirty bucks cash in my wallet, but that won’t get us far.” He adds, “We’ll just have to be careful. Can’t go waving hundreds around everywhere, and all that.”

With a certain degree of reluctance, Lars agrees. He’s quick to surreptitiously fish a few hundred out of the trunk and head back to the office.

James doesn’t bother bringing any of his luggage into the room with them — just grabs the same clothes he wore yesterday, his razor, and his toothbrush. Dirty clothes are the least of their worries right now, but the thought does cross his mind that they should see if they can do a load of laundry while they’re here, or stop by a gift shop, or something. Neither he nor Lars packed for an extended stay.

They’ll need to get a new prepaid burner, too; Kirk’s probably has less than an hour left on it, which doesn't bode terribly well if they're expecting to hear from Junior. And they should find a way to break up some of those hundred-dollar bills.

But that can wait until tomorrow — it can all wait.

Even as on-edge as they all are right now, James still manages to fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep the second his head hits that scratchy motel room pillow.

+

When he wakes up again at one in the afternoon, it’s to the sound of laughter.

For a second he’s struck with a sense of disorientation, heart beating fast as he sits up, and then he remembers: Dead body. Kirk. Junior. Motel in Victorville.

“Look who’s awake,” Lars greets him wryly.

James twists around to see him and Kirk sitting at the tiny two-person table by the window. The closed window blinds are glowing orange beneath the glare of the afternoon sun, and the room feels stuffy and hot as James gets up, shuffling into the equally tiny bathroom to splash his face and take a piss.

“We got bagels,” Kirk offers once he reemerges, holding one up with an ungodly amount of good humour. His hair is frizzy and wild from sleep.

James gives a grunt of acquiescence and accepts the foil-wrapped bundle. It’s sesame with cream cheese; not good, but not bad. It helps that it’s the first food he’s had since the previous afternoon.

“Better?” Lars inquires.

“Less dead,” James responds through a mouthful. “Any word yet?”

Both of them shake their heads.

That’s fine, then. They can spend the rest of the day here. Maybe even the night.

James hates that their whole plan hinges on Junior deigning to call them back, but right now, he’s still their best shot at getting through this shit and getting Kirk and Lars back to their normal lives.

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed closest to the table while he eats. He finds it strange to watch the two of them bicker and banter the way they used to, but in some ways, it’s a relief; Kirk is decidedly sharper after six hours’ rest, almost to the point of being clear-eyed. James is glad to see that the animated, goofy nature of his personality has persevered, despite recent hardships.

Kirk and Lars were always close, back in the day — closer than Kirk and James ever were, at least. They’d hang off of eachother like a couple of conjoined twins.

In truth, James always assumed they were fucking. But he never managed to get jealous about it; where Lars was concerned, it was expected for him to be juggling at least five different fuckbuddies at any given time. James never took offense to that.

Maybe it made sense for Kirk to turn to Dave in search of that same kind of physical comfort, though, after the rest of them took their leave. And then for Dave to off himself so violently, so suddenly, and with so little explanation…

“James?” Kirk says his name, prying him out of his train of thought. He’s holding up a deck of cards with a stupid grin.

“Hm?”

“Rummy. Want me to deal you in?”

James shrugs, idly crumpling up the foil remnants of his breakfast. “If you don't mind losing. What are the stakes?”

+

They manage to lose three hours that way, just sitting around the tiny table playing cards for the coveted prize of not having to share a bed. Despite James’ bold words, it comes as no surprise when Kirk wipes the floor with both he and Lars.

It’s all in good fun. By the time James and Lars admit defeat and call the game quits, it’s half-past three in the afternoon. Junior still hasn't called. Kirk is starting to get restless again.

Neither James nor Lars make any acknowledgement when he quietly gets up and shuts himself in the bathroom for twenty minutes — and callously, or maybe selfishly, James is willing to let his habit be the elephant in the room. Out of all the collateral damage associated with that life he left behind, addiction was never one that sat comfortably with him. He’s unsure why Dave would have allowed Kirk to get to this point in the first place, but then he comes right back to the verdict he reached last night: it’s not his business. Kirk is a grown man, not a misguided teen. 

He finds his thoughts growing dark as he stands in the open doorway of the room, arms crossed as he surveys the parking lot and the clouds above. There appears to be a storm gathering on the horizon.

“You think he’s gonna call soon?” Lars asks, sidling up beside him. His left arm finds James’ waist, hand resting lightly at his hip, and for some reason, James has to suppress the urge to brush him off.

He looks down at his hands instead. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he finally says, twisting his ring finger where that shiny silver band once used to sit. “Looks like we might be spending another night here, though.”

Lars snorts. “You think you can handle sharing that tiny bed with me? Uh?”

The corner of James’ mouth tilts up despite himself. “Yeah, we’ll manage. My fault for being stupid enough to play cards with Hammett.”

“You never learn,” Lars shakes his head. He’s pulled his hair back from his face into a neat ponytail, falling smoothly between his shoulders, and he looks — good. Normal. Relaxed.

The two of them fall into silence for a moment, just looking out from the mouth of the room. James feels old and tired in comparison to Lars. Despite his long, uninterrupted rest earlier, his entire body feels heavy standing together like this, reminded that they’re temporarily stuck here, holed up in a motel like fugitives, waiting on one single phone call to determine what their next move is.

A part of him can't help but to be angry with Dave — for offing himself, for making Kirk suffer, for forcing James and Lars back here, for the stupid will and the weird fucking box of cash… but then, even more frustrating, comes the realization that anger is futile. James knows there’s no point in having a bone to pick with a dead man, because he’ll always have the last word; even after Dave laid himself down for a dirt nap, he still managed to fuck the rest of them over.

Whether intentional or unintentionally, well. That remains to be determined.

James exhales a sigh and rubs at his forehead. Behind them, he hears the bathroom door open and the light click off, and then the mattress squeaking as Kirk climbs into bed.

“You wanna get out of here for an hour?” he asks quietly, turning to face Lars. “Give him some space?”

Lars meets his gaze. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking back over his shoulder to where Kirk is huddled up under the sheets. “Yeah, let's go.”

+


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The bed is barely big enough for James, let alone the two of them — Lars’ face seems alarmingly close on the pillows, his newly-shorn hair curling over his temples in soft tendrils. James wants to reach out and run his hand through it, to feel the smooth strands part under his fingers. He doesn't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my life is a fucking mess right now! lmao. online courses + prepping to move + uncooperative brain chemistry is just .... the perfect storm. truly.   
> once again, i'm sorry i'm so bad at updating, and i hope you enjoy, etc. i promise there will be some sexytimes soon !!!

+

Half an hour later, James is back in the driver’s seat and they’re cruising aimlessly around town. For once, Lars isn't talking.

“You okay?” James asks him as they pull up to a red light.

“Just thinking.”

“That's always a good idea,” James says dryly.

Lars laughs a little. “Yeah, yeah. I guess it's just…” he gives a long exhale. He’s quiet for another moment, and James swears he can hear the gears turning.

“I mean, I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that any of this is happening right now,” he says. “Like, it’s fuckin’... God, I don't even know. I was just thinking about how my coworkers probably won't even notice I’m gone for another two weeks.”

He raises one hand to rub at his mouth. “I doubt anyone has even noticed yet. Maybe my cleaning lady, but she…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I mean, it's just fucking weird, man. I quit this life so I could put down roots somewhere else, but it turns out I’m even more dispensable out there than I am back here.”

The light turns green, and James starts forward. There’s a brief pause while he waits for Lars to continue.

“Like… I really had a chance, there. To get out. And I wasted it, and now I’m back here on some kind of twisted roadtrip-slash-family reunion, lugging around Dave's sick idea of a white elephant gift.”

Lars scoffs. In his periphery, James watches him pick at the knee of his dress pants, the crease still sharp from Dave’s funeral only a few days prior.

“Strippers and blow, eh?” Lars shakes his head. “If we’d been really smart, we would have taken a page out of Cliff’s book and just stayed gone.”

His tone is more wistful than bitter, though.

James doesn't have a good response to that, so he settles for clearing his throat and saying, “We’ll sort it out, man. We’ll get you back home.”

Lars shoots him a look; gratitude, maybe, mixed with disbelief. “Thanks,” he says, and then the  
two of them lapse back into silence.

At Lars’ request, James ends up taking them to Wal-Mart — “They’ll split hundreds with no questions,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll go in, buy some shit, take the change, and split. Then we can try to find a Costco and do the same.”

It’s a smart idea. But then again, that’s Lars — always restless, always thinking two steps ahead, always predicting the next move.

“Can you get me some clothes?” James asks him through the open window, watching in the side mirror as he rifles in the trunk for bills. The car is parked on the far corner of the lot to avoid attention, but James can't help but to scan the area, watching with a wary eye as shoppers come and go.

“You trust me to play fashion consultant?” Lars says, poking his head around the side of the car with an obnoxious grin.

“Plain black shirts,” James clarifies. “And be quick. If you're not back in half an hour, I’m coming in after you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lars says, slamming the trunk shut. “Give me forty-five, okay? Just put on the radio and sit tight.”

James grunts his agreement. He watches Lars stalk off, crossing the lot with confident, purposeful strides. His ponytail swings hypnotically in time with his steps. Then he disappears, swallowed up by the sliding doors, and James hunches lower in his seat to wait. The evening is hot and ripe with the smell of incoming rain as the storm clouds move in above them.

True to his word, Lars emerges after forty minutes have elapsed. His narrow shoulders are slumped under the weight of three plastic bags. James unlocks the doors and waits for him to approach.

“Alright?”

Lars nods. He fumbles to try and open the rear right door for a second, then gives up and sets one of the bags down to manage the handle. James idly watches in the rearview mirror as he tosses them into the back seat one by one. Clothing in the first, it looks like, and food in the second. A few boxes in the third.

“I picked up some hair dye and shit, too,” Lars huffs as he rounds the car and collapses into the passenger seat. “Thought maybe we could change up our looks.”

For a second, James just stares at him. Then he shakes his head and starts the car. “What is this, a fuckin’ spy movie? Dye won't do shit if anyone’s actually looking for me.”

Lars shrugs. “Maybe not, but at least it’ll be fun,” he replies, unbothered. “Lets just go hit Costco first, uh? I asked the cashier, she said it’s ten minutes that way if we take the I-15.”

He’s pointing vaguely out the window, index finger tapping against the glass. James directs the car in that direction.

Thankfully, the Costco stop is quicker; Lars is in and out in thirty minutes, and comes back with a cheap toaster and a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

“The fuck are we going to do with that?” James asks, hitching a thumb to the toaster as Lars climbs back into the passenger seat.

“Dunno,” Lars says, “But it was fifteen bucks, which means I got eighty-five back, which means next time you want to buy a sandwich, you won't have to flash a hundred-dollar bill.”

He punctuates the sentence by shoving a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. “Want some?” he offers, extending the little paper dish to James with a self-satisfied grin.

James declines with a shake of his head. “We should get back to Kirk,” he says, putting the car in drive, “Maybe find some dinner. If Junior’s going to call today, he’ll have to do it soon.”

Lars just hums in response as they peel out of the parking lot and back onto the road. He’s unusually quiet on the drive back to the motel, placidly finishing his ice cream with his knees bent up to rest against the dashboard.

The storm finally breaks as they're five minutes out from the hotel, and to no one’s surprise, the sky opens up with a vengeance. James has to turn on the wipers just to see the road in front of him. When they park and get out, Lars tries to tent his thin jacket over his head in a feeble attempt to keep dry — James tosses him the keys and he makes a run for the door, unlocking it and rushing inside while James grabs the bags from the back. It’s a warm rain, but it still soaks into his clothes in thirty seconds flat.

“Thanks,” James mutters as he lumbers into the room, setting the bags down on the table. Lars closes the door behind him and slides the chain lock into place.

The room is dark except for the lamp beside the unoccupied bed. Kirk is still curled up in the other one; as James watches, he stirs a little and props himself up on one elbow, twisting to face them with bleary, disoriented eyes.

“You want the first shower?” James asks, not quite meeting Kirk’s gaze.

Lars looks up from where he’s rooting through the bags. “Nah, you go for it. I’ll go after. And, uh—” he reaches a hand inside, “Take this.”

He lightly tosses a box in James’ direction, and James’ hand reflexively snaps up to catch it.

Hair dye. Dark brown.

“Really?”

Lars shrugs. “Really.”

+

It takes James upwards of five minutes just to figure out how to mix the dye. He thinks of asking Lars for help, and then thinks better of it; some things, he thinks, are best done alone.

It’s not a smooth process. James ignores the plastic gloves in the box — too small for his big paws, anyway — and by the time he finally gets his entire head coated in the dark, slimy goo, it’s all over, lingering under his fingernails and staining the creases of his palms. He sits on the closed toilet lid, shirtless, until he thinks the recommended ten minutes have passed.

The motel shower is cramped and tiny when he finally steps in. The water is warm at best, and he has to duck to get his head under the shower head. He ends up getting dye in his eyes and has to clench them tight against the gritty burn, blindly groping for the towel rack to rub away the worst of it. By the time he gets back out, he feels half-blind and only slightly more clean than when he went in.

Despite the whirr of the fan, the little bathroom is heavy with condensation, and James has to wipe a hand across the mirror to see his reflection.

At first, he’s almost startled; the dingy fluorescent lighting makes his new hair colour appear more black than brown, and his skin looks horrendously pale in contrast. There’s a leftover smear of it down his neck that James absently wipes away. He idly surveys the familiar pockmarks on his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the fresh bruises littering his torso, never quite managing to meet his own gaze. He’s sorely in need of a shave, but that can wait until tomorrow morning.

“You okay?” he hears Lars call from the room, followed by a hesitant rap on the door.

“Fine,” James replies. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and looks away. 

+

For once, Lars holds his tongue when James emerges from the bathroom. He and Kirk both turn around with curious, assessing looks, but neither of them say anything.

“Well, me next,” Lars announces after a moment, standing up from the table. “Instant noodles are in the bag, feel free to boil the kettle and make yourselves some dinner.”

He pats James on the shoulder in passing, then shuts himself in the bathroom. A few minutes later, James hears the sound of an electric razor running.

Kirk boils the kettle and turns on the TV. They eat in silence.

+

James lies awake for a long time that night. He stares at the tiny crack of moonlight shining through where the curtains meet, listening to the rhythm of Kirk’s soft snores. He’s fairly sure Lars isn't asleep, either.

It’s still raining outside, and the gentle patter of it seems to muffle the sound of the rustling sheets, softening the edge on Lars’ voice when he finally whispers, “James?”

“Mm.”

“Just checking if you were awake.”

James is still for a moment, just watching that tiny crack of moonlight. Then he sighs and rolls over to face Lars.

“Yeah, ‘m awake.”

The bed is barely big enough for James, let alone the two of them — Lars’ face seems alarmingly close on the pillows, his newly-shorn hair curling over his temples in soft tendrils. James wants to reach out and run his hand through it, to feel the smooth strands part under his fingers. He doesn't.

“Can't sleep either?”

Lars shakes his head. “Too much going on.”

“Sure it’s not ‘cause you’re too busy scraping your toenails against my calves?”

Lars breathes a laugh. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I had to share a bed.”

“Me, too.”

A pause. Lars studies his face for a second.

“It looks good,” he finally says, decisively. “Your hair, I mean.”

James manages half of a tired smile. “Thanks. Yours, too. I mean, it looks…”

Younger. Beautiful. Like a goddamn rockstar. Fucking hot.

“...nice.”

Lars cracks a grin, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. He lifts one hand, tracing his fingers over the left side of James’ head, right above his ear where his hairline starts. “Thanks.”

He’s too close, in the dark like this. Too soft and small. Too warm. Too familiar.

James swallows. “I mean it,” he says roughly, as if he can't stop himself. “You look good, Lars. Even… Even after all this time.”

Lars’ fingers pause. “James…”

“I shouldn't, I know. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, it's not…” Lars ducks his head a little, his face falling into shadow. “I missed you, man. I really— I just fucking missed you. And now that you're back here, I—”

His hand slides down, cupping the side of James’ face.

“Don't make me wait that long, okay? Don't do that to me again.”

“I wouldn't,” James says. “I won't. If we— If we get out of this, I...”

“We will,” Lars says. “We will get out of this. Together.” 

He says it with vehemence, calling up that same fierce determination he’s always had, and all James can do is nod and swallow his words.

“You should get some sleep,” he finally says. “We might have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.”

+


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fuckin’ New Mexico,” Lars mutters, rubbing at his forehead. “What’s even in New Mexico? Huh?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck, yall. i know it's been like six months but i am NOT ready to let this one die, i'm determined to keep chugging

+

The next morning, James wakes up alone in bed. The curtains are still drawn shut, but the room is warm and hazy with late morning light. A quick glance to the rumpled sheets on the opposite bed tells him that Kirk isn't here, either.

Blearily, James sits up. He rolls his shoulders and heaves a yawn, wiping the crust from his eyes. He scratches idly at his belly.

The other two are probably off getting breakfast, he figures; he won't let himself overthink their absence too much. Instead, he takes his time getting dressed in the clothes Lars picked up yesterday — a plain black t-shirt, fresh socks, and a pair of dark-wash jeans that are far too short in the ankles — and gives himself a slow, careful shave, then turns the TV on to distract himself as he rummages through one of the grocery bags for something to eat. He settles on a granola bar; some kind of dry, low-fat, organic chunk of bark that Lars probably loves. It tastes like cardboard.

He watches the weather for another twenty minutes, until he hears the approaching sound of a familiar voice. James rises and steps outside to greet them, finding himself squinting in the sudden brightness; the sun is shining on the few stray puddles left by last night’s downpour, and the air smells fresh.

“Hey,” Lars gives him a jovial sort of wave. “Sleep well?”

James lifts a hand to shield his eyes. “Fine. Leave a note or something next time, okay?”

Lars dips his chin in a nod. “‘Kay. We were getting cooped up in there, y’know, just thought maybe we’d go for a walk.”

James watches Lars fish a pack of cigarettes from his pocket — a new one with crisp edges, probably picked up somewhere nearby — and deftly shakes two out, passing one to Kirk.

Kirk coughs a little, but says nothing as he and Lars light up.

James clears his throat. “I was thinking maybe we should pack up,” he continues after a moment, uneasily scanning the parking lot.

That gets Lars’ attention. James watches as his brows pull together, forehead creasing into a frown. His newly-shorn hair flutters slightly in the breeze, briefly giving him the appearance of bangs. “You wanna leave?”

“Junior was supposed to call yesterday,” James points out with a shrug, keeping his voice low. “I just don't know how long we should keep waiting for him. Might be a better idea to find somewhere new to hole up, y’know.”

There’s a pause, and then Kirk pipes up. “I don't like it,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, we’d better just stay put, y’know? Junior, he— If he offered to help, and you don't take that help, he’ll be pissed, man. He’s doing you guys a-a big favour, with all of this.”

“He _would_ be, if he’d fucking call us back,” James says curtly.

Something foreboding flashes in Kirk’s gaze. “Junior isn't like Dave was, man. You don't have the same kind of history with him. I-If you fuck with him, even a little, it could get ugly, and…” He takes a nervous drag off the cigarette, then absently rubs his temple with the knuckles of the same hand, bringing the cherry far too close to his hair for James’ comfort.

“You just don't wanna piss him off, man,” Kirk finishes with another little shake of his head. “That guy is— He’s not like Dave. Not at all.”

James studies the nervous twitch of his fingers as he ashes the cigarette. “But you trust him?”

Kirk meets his eyes, briefly, and then his gaze skitters away. “Yeah,” he says. “I don't really have a choice, do I?”

Lars sighs, blowing out smoke. “Look, I already paid for another night here, so let’s all just calm down, okay? Whatever. Chances are, no one’s even looking for us that hard. Another twenty-four hours won’t make much of a difference. Alright?”

James shifts his weight. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if that call doesn’t come tonight, we’re out of here by tomorrow morning.”

Lars doesn’t argue. Neither does Kirk. James walks back into the motel room, leaving the two of them to finish their smokes.

+

When the phone finally does go off just before eight P.M., it’s almost comical how fast the three of them freeze in their tracks. Lars stops pacing at the foot of the bed, one nail still caught between his teeth as he turns to stare.

It rings again.

“That’s gotta be him,” Lars says, unusually nervous. “Pick it up, c’mon, it’s gotta be—”

James grabs the phone as it starts in on the third ring. Lars abruptly goes quiet as he answers it.

“Hello?”

“James,” comes Junior’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hey, man. Where are you guys?”

“We’re, uh,” James meets Lars’ gaze, “We’re at a motel. Somewhere around San Bernardino.” The lie slips out before he can really think about it. Across the room, Kirk’s face shifts into an uneasy frown. “Any news on your end?”

Junior exhales. “Not much. The room you were staying in was ruled a crime scene — y’know, foul play, or whatever — and the cops are circulating an APB for your arrest, but it hasn’t made the news or anything. No word on whether they’re looking for Lars. I would have called sooner, but business has got me pretty tied up over here, so.” There’s a faint clanging noise on his end, like a garage door closing, and then a short, muffled exchange as Junior says something to someone else. There's a pause. “James? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“You got a pen and paper handy?”

“One sec, let me just, uh.” James slides the bedside drawer open and scrabbles for the notepad and shitty ballpoint pen inside. “Okay, yeah. Go ahead.”

Junior quickly rattles off an address. James copies it down.

“I want you to get some rest and then start heading in that direction tomorrow morning,” Junior says. “Take whatever roads you want, but I want you there by the day after tomorrow at the latest. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don't call me unless you’re really up shit creek. You guys run into any trouble, I’ll trust you can handle it. Clear?”

“Clear.” James’ grip tightens around the pen. “Can you tell me anything else about this guy we’re meeting?”

The sound of crunching gravel comes through from Junior’s end, as if he's walking outside. “His name's Jason,” he finally says. “Newsted. He worked for Dave for a few years, just after you left. He’s a real whiz with fake documents, storage, shit like that. He’s retired, but he’ll put you up for a few nights if I ask. Solid guy.”

“And he knows we’re coming?”

“Yeah, he’ll be expecting you. Anything else?”

“No, we’ll take it from here. Thanks.”

“I’ll be in touch soon.”

Junior hangs up without waiting for him to say goodbye. The line goes dead and James flips the phone shut, looking up to find Lars and Kirk staring back at him.

“He wants us there by the day after tomorrow,” James tells them, motioning to the notepad. “If we leave first thing tomorrow morning, we can run a straight shot and get there early. Worst comes to worst, we find somewhere to pull over for the night and pick it back up the next day.”

Lars worries his lower lip between this fingers and resumes pacing, but doesn't reply. James turns to where Kirk is sitting cross-legged on the other bed. He waves the notepad. “You know anything about this guy? Jason?”

Kirk blinks. “Yeah, he— I knew him, sure. He used to run shit for Dave from time to time, up in New Mexico. Had a big farm and shit. He used to put the bricks in his trailers, right under the horses. He, uh... He left a little while ago, I guess. Three years, maybe four. He was a nice guy. He was really…” Kirk trails off into silence. His eyes go a little glazed, stuck in a memory someplace, and then he shakes his head and rubs at one eye. “Whatever. He’ll help you guys,” he finally concludes. “He’ll help you for sure.”

James carefully rips the paper off of the notepad and stuffs it into his jeans pocket for safekeeping. On second though, he rips off the indented page underneath, as well. It makes him feel about ten times more paranoid than he already is.

“Fuckin’ New Mexico,” Lars mutters, rubbing at his forehead. “What’s even in New Mexico? Huh?”

James shrugs. “You got a better idea?”

“What, than driving twelve fuckin’ hours to crash at some stranger’s farm?” Lars scoffs. “Forhelvede.”

The wheels are turning in James’ mind. He stares down at his hands for a long, quiet moment before he speaks. “Junior said your name hasn't come up at all on his end.”

Lars’ expression doesn't change. “Okay?”

James shakes his head. “Don't play dumb, asshole. If they haven't mentioned you yet, they're probably not going to.” He hesitates. “You could… leave. You could go home, if you wanted to. Y’know, back to your cleaning lady, and your strippers, or whatever the fuck else you do. Call it a— a lost weekend.”

“Are we seriously talking about this again?” Lars scoffs, his hands flying up in a gesture of exasperation. “Fuck you. I’m not leaving. I was the one who killed that guy in the first place, anyway, so It's my fault your name’s smeared all over it.”

“What, so you want both of us to go down for it for no reason?”

Lars stops pacing. “Who says we’re gonna get caught?”

James exhales, irritation starting to prickle at the back of his neck. In his peripheral vision, Kirk pulls his knees up to his chest, but he stays silent. Watching Mom and Dad fight. 

“Lars…”

“If someone's trying to kill you, the chances are probably pretty fucking high they’re interested in me, too, okay? So I’m fucking staying. Call it self-preservation, or whatever. Just leave it alone.”

James clenches his jaw and holds his tongue. He avoids Lars’ gaze, instead choosing to keep his eyes fixed on the dingy carpet at his feet. They can't afford to be fighting right now, and whatever he wants to say will only make matters worse.

Lars scoffs and turns on his heel. James hears him mutter something in Danish, and then he disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on a minute or two later.

He’s always been like this, James reasons. Too confident, too stubborn. Too decisive for his own good. Once he finds some stupid moral conviction, he’s like a dog with a fucking bone.

James sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “We should start packing,” he finally says, his voice coming out flat. Kirk is quick to do so.

The three of them go to bed early that night, lulled to sleep by the blue glow of the shitty TV. By the time James takes his turn brushing his teeth, sets the alarm for six in the morning, and slides under the covers, Lars is already out cold.

James drifts off much quicker that night, without Lars to talk to. He keeps his feet to himself and faces the other direction.

+

The next morning, James wakes up before the alarm. The glowing red numbers draw his eye in the dark — 5:46 AM.

He watches for a long moment, almost unblinking, until the six turns into a seven. The room is quiet save for Kirk’s gentle snores and Lars’ soft, rhythmic breathing behind him, but there’s not much point in trying to go back to sleep.

Carefully, James eases up into a sitting position, trying not to jostle Lars awake. The carpet is scratchy beneath his bare feet as he gets up and shuffles to the bathroom.

James eases the door closed behind himself before flicking on the lights. The dingy fluorescent bulb floods the small room and he squints, face scrunching up in sleepy discomfort at the piercing brightness. He makes short work of relieving himself and washes his hands with the shitty motel-provided soap, then splashes his face and dunks his head under the tap for good measure. He’s just towelling off his hair when he hears a soft knock on the door.

The handle turns and Lars peers around the frame. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping inside.

“Hey,” James echoes, lowering the towel. “Did I wake you up?”

Lars shakes his head, gently pushing the door shut. “Nah, I was up anyways.” For a second he just stands there, blinking blearily against the light. He gestures to the toilet. “You mind if I…?”

James shakes his head and steps out of the way. He keeps his gaze fixed on the wall beside the mirror as Lars does his business. The room feels almost claustrophobically small for two people; when Lars moves to the sink, his shoulder knocks up against James’ bicep.

“Sorry,” James mutters, shifting back out of the way. He throws the towel back over the rack. It’s damp, but Lars uses it to dry his hands, anyway. For a moment, the two of them just stand there in their underwear, neither quite sure of what to say.

“Guess we should start thinking about heading out, uh?” Lars finally breaks the silence. He looks up at James for the briefest of seconds, then turns around to face the mirror instead. He fusses with his hair. The bathroom lighting makes his skin look unnaturally sallow, illuminating the dark circles beneath his green eyes. “I’ve got the keys and stuff all ready to go, so I thought I’d return them to the office and check out while you load up the car. Kirk’s probably gonna need a pick-me-up before we hit the road, but then we can head right out. I was looking at that road atlas while you were in the shower last night and I was thinking if we—”

James folds his arms across his bare chest. “You still want to come, then,” he cuts in, tone impassive.

Lars turns to face him. “Whether you like it or not.” His voice is wry, but his eyes are steady and sharp, brooking no argument whatsoever.

Reluctantly, James decides to swallow his anger.

“Alright,” he agrees with a nod, “Just… Promise you won't fuckin’ hate me for it, if this all goes wrong and we end up sitting in a courtroom a month from now.”

“It won't. And we won't.”

“Cocky motherfucker.”

“Someone’s gotta have a little faith around here.”

“I’m just being realistic.”

“No, you're being paranoid.” Lars crosses his arms, mirroring James’ posture. “You've done plenty of shadier shit before, James, and you've only been caught, what, twice? This time won't be any different.”

“Second-degree murder is a little different than two years on possession charges, Lars. We’re talking fifteen fucking years, here.”

Irritated, Lars rubs at his forehead. “I know, okay? I fucking know. I’m just… I know the risks, I know it's a shitty situation, but I’m staying. So.”

His gaze is steady. Resolute. James sighs and steps forward before he can think better of it, pulling him into a clumsy hug. “Stubborn fucker.”

Lars hesitates for a second, then relaxes and huffs a laugh against James’ chest, his arms lifting to wrap around James’ back. “Wherever you go, I go, uh? You’re not gonna shake me that easy.”

His bare skin is warm, pressed up against James like this. The shape of his body has changed, slightly, but their height difference hasn't. It’s easy for James to dip his chin and press a kiss to the top of his head. “You never make anything easy.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are never gonna believe this but when i plotted this thing out, it was only ever supposed to be 9 parts long ........ lmao

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me on tumblr @[shotgunmessiahs :-)](http://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com)


End file.
